“We just want to speak with him,” Tomasetti says. “Is he in?”
She glances at the clock on her desk. “He usually gets in from his route at about this time. Hangs out in the warehouse, doing his paperwork. Let me page him for you.” Using her pen, she presses a button on the switchboard. “Scott, please call 900.”
Tomasetti gives me a look that tells me he’s not in the mood to wait. “Where’s the warehouse?”
“Well, um, I’m not really allowed to let you go back there.”
His smile looks more like a snarl. “If your boss gives you a hard time, I’ll arrest him for you.”
A nervous giggle escapes her, and she points a pink nail at the door beyond. “Go through that door. Make a left. Take the door with the Exit sign. Loading dock is across the lot. Can’t miss it.”
The warehouse is a large metal building with two overhead doors that look out over loading bays. Four brown step vans, the sides of which are affixed with the Tuscarawus Coffee Roasters logo, are parked at the bays. We cross the small asphalt lot, reach the loading area and take concrete steps to the warehouse. A few feet away, a man in a brown uniform sits at metal desk pecking at a computer. His name tag tells me he’s the man we’re looking for.
“Scott Barbereaux?” I hold out my badge.
He glances up from his work. His eyes widen when he spots my badge and uniform. Standing quickly, he puts up his hands as if to fend us off. “Look, if this is about that ticket in Wooster, I sent the money order in two weeks ago.”
He’s about six feet tall with broad shoulders and well-defined biceps. He wears the uniform a tad too tight, but it looks good on him—at least he thinks so. His face is tanned to a golden, healthy brown. Dark hair cut just above his shoulders has been artfully highlighted, giving an overall impression that he’s spent the last six months on some topless beach in the south of France. I can practically smell the Bain de Soleil.
“This isn’t about a ticket,” I say.
“Really?” He relaxes, smiles, amused. “If it’s not about the ticket then—” He falls silent, sobers as realization dawns. “Oh, shit. This is about the Amish girl at the store. Evelyn told me you cops were asking about me.”
“That Evelyn is pretty fast on the dial, isn’t she?” Tomasetti sidles around behind him and steals a look at the computer screen.
If this makes Barbereaux nervous, the man gives no indication. “That’s just bizarre. An Amish family. Shit. You guys arrest anyone yet?”
“We’re following up on a few things,” I say vaguely.
“I just saw the girl last week. Friday. She was stocking preserves or something. Sweet kid. Quiet. Seemed to be a hard worker. Believe me, Evelyn gets her money’s worth.”
“Did you know her?” I ask.
“Mandy?”
“Mary,” I correct. “Last name Plank.”
“Just to say hello. I saw her at the store just about every time I delivered. Mostly on Fridays. They went through a lot of coffee. Evelyn offers it free to tourists, you know. I guess that’s a good way to entice them, but . . .” As if realizing he’d drifted off topic he sighs. “I just can’t believe someone could do something so frickin’ bad to a helpless Amish family.”
“Did you ever see Mary with anyone?” I ask.
“Not that I recall.”
“Did you ever see her get into a vehicle?”
“I’m sorry. I never really noticed. My route’s got a lot of stops, so I’m always rushed. God, now I wish I’d paid more attention.” He runs his fingers through his hair, musses it to tousled perfection. “I mean, I’ve got nieces and nephews. I know you guys don’t want to hear this, but I swear to God if someone ever hurt them, I’d go Dirty Harry on them.”
“Did you ever speak to Mary?” Standing behind Barbereaux now, Tomasetti picks up a sheet of paper, skims it, sets it back down.
“I helped her lift some heavy stuff once. A case of jelly or jam or something. I think she was really shy.”
“Did you ever meet any of her family members?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I think I saw her mom once, but we didn’t speak or anything.”
Tomasetti makes his way around to the front of the desk. “Where were you Sunday night?”
“Shit. Me?” Barbereaux presses his hand to his chest. Mr. Innocent. “You don’t think I had something to do with this, do you?”
“We’re just collecting information,” I add. “You know, to rule people out.”
“Well, I was home all night. With my girlfriend, Glenda Patterson.” He spells the last name. “We watched a movie. You can call her.”
I jot down the name. “You two live together?”
“No, she’s got her own place in Maple Crest.”
Maple Crest is a new housing development that’s gobbled up a good bit of farmland on the east side of town. “Anything else you can tell us about Mary that might help us?” I press.
“Not that I can think of.”
“Did she ever seem upset?” I ask.